


The First Time

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time never ends; it just changes its shape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Wendymr for the Britpick; to Earlgreytea68 for the beta. Quotes from the shows are recognizable and doubled-checked against Arianedevere’s transcripts. First time for everyone, really, as this is my first attempt at writing slash sex. Happy Sunday, everyone!
> 
>  
> 
> Available as a [podfic](http://watsoffwatson.tumblr.com/post/40558492380/podfic-the-first-time), read by Vlash.

The first time Sherlock kisses John, John wakes from a nightmare that has him screaming and rolling off his bed and onto the floor. His room is dark and oppressive, the walls closing in on him, so he goes downstairs to the more familiar and comfortable sitting room, and sits on the sofa. Pale moonlight mixed with the yellow from the street lamps filters into 221B; dark shadows and familiar curiosities take on a sinister edge. He can’t sit still and he can’t keep his hand from shaking, and he thinks that if he can just be somewhere other than his room, maybe he can calm down long enough to get back to sleep. 

“John?” 

Bugger. “Nightmare,” says John shortly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Sherlock crosses the room. “You didn’t.” 

John doesn’t ask why Sherlock’s awake – who knows why Sherlock does anything – and he presses his forehead between his hands, trying to squeeze the fading but somehow still potent nightmare out of his head. He can barely remember it now, phrases and words both familiar and frightening floating together in his mind. The jittery, half-tensed feeling is still in his tendons, and he thinks he might rattle apart. 

(“You can’t be allowed to continue.”) 

Sherlock sits on the sofa next to him. John feels the cushions shift, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and for that, John is grateful. He doesn’t want to hear Sherlock’s spot-on assessment of his state of mind, or a round-up of the day’s events, or whatever other mad or brilliant thing Sherlock has running through his incomprehensible head. 

(“People get so sentimental about their pets and so touchingly loyal.”) 

Instead Sherlock sits, not so much waiting as _being_ , and John exhales slowly. The minutes tick by and the shadows shift; the light turns pink and Sherlock breathes next to him. John’s hand stops shaking, and his heart beats normally, and he feels very, very tired, and very, very old. Calmer, quieter; his hand stops shaking as he sits next to Sherlock, and it’s better now. The nightmare dissipates with company. 

(“No one ever gets to me…you’ve come the closest.”) 

He turns to Sherlock, to say thanks, but before he can open his mouth, Sherlock kisses him – just a gentle press of lips to his, not even a hand on his cheek to steady him. John’s eyes close automatically, and before he can think why, the kiss is over, and Sherlock stands and returns to his bedroom. 

(“Bet you never saw this coming.”) 

John’s hand remains steady, and befuddled with surprise, John remains seated for a moment, until the soft click of Sherlock’s door closing wakes him. He stands, finds that his knees will hold him, and goes up the stairs to his bedroom, and falls into bed, and sleeps. 

* 

The first time John kisses Sherlock is at New Scotland Yard, in one of the conference rooms plastered with photographs and evidence tags and x-rays and police reports. They’re alone, the first time alone in days of racing and deducing and trying to catch a serial killer before he strikes again. 

Sherlock paces, unable to sit still, unable to speak coherently. John watches him spin in mental and physical circles, and his heart twists for the pain his friend is feeling. 

“It’s there, it’s there, but I can’t see it,” rants Sherlock, pulling at his hair, tugging at his sleeves, fingers itching against the outline of the two nicotine patches on his arm. “I just….” 

“Mind palace,” says John, but Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Been there. Not helping. Too empty. Look at this. _Look at this_.” 

John looks, but he doesn’t see. Or observe. 

“I can’t think, I can’t concentrate,” says Sherlock, and there is desperation in his voice. He pushes away from the table and throws his fist against the wall. 

(“ _Don't_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”) 

“Calm down, okay?” says John and he goes to look at Sherlock’s hand. The knuckles are red but not bleeding. Yet. “You’ll get it. You always get it.” 

(“That's a good deduction, yeah.”) 

“My head won’t stop _spinning_ ,” says Sherlock, and pulls on his hair again with his free hand. 

“Stop that,” says John. “ _Stop that_.” 

(“I've disappointed you.”) 

He reaches for Sherlock’s hand to pull it down. Except he doesn’t – he keeps his hand on Sherlock’s, and instead of pulling down the hand, pulls down his head, and kisses him. It isn’t gentle, not exactly, more insistent and demanding of attention and focus, and their lips slide into place together easily, comfortably. Sherlock doesn’t respond, at first, and then he does, his fingers digging into John’s arms with growing impatience and energy. John thinks there will be marks by morning, and his grip on Sherlock’s neck tightens in time with his heartbeat. When he can feel Sherlock’s mind click – and it’s definitely a feeling, the little pause in Sherlock’s tongue, the soft catch of breath in the back of Sherlock’s throat – John lets Sherlock go, and he can see a focus in his grey eyes that wasn’t there before. 

(“Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.”) 

Neither of them say anything, and they hear Lestrade shout down the hall. Sherlock steps away, and John’s hand falls back to his side. 

“There,” says Sherlock, staring at the photograph again. “It’s _there_.” He goes out the door, shouting. “ _Lestrade_. Canary Wharf, immediately. We don’t have any time to lose.” 

* 

The first time they fuck is in Dartmoor. It’s a rude word and one that neither thinks when they remember, but there isn’t any other word that quite describes what happens. It is late when John returns to the room, slightly drunk from too much wine, his heart heavy from the argument with Sherlock dismissing him. The combination of Mortimer spurning him and the couple rocking back and forth in their car don’t help – he is completely aware of how alone he is, and the light switch does nothing to illuminate the room. 

“Bloody hell,” sighs John, and lets the door close behind him as he fumbles his way to the lavatory, switching on the light there to at least give him some hope of not breaking his neck on the furniture. It’s barely enough light to see by; he sheds his clothes and is about to stumble into the bed when he sees the figure sitting on the chair by the window. 

Sherlock. Of course. 

(“I meant what I said. I don’t have friends. I just have one.”) 

John is too weary to say anything, too weary even to look at Sherlock properly. He stands by the bed, rubs his eyes and waits for...he doesn’t know. He waits, trusting that Sherlock knows what he’s doing. 

(“No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt.”) 

He waits for this, as it turns out, for Sherlock to stand, to take John’s hands away from his face. To kiss his forehead, his cheek, his mouth, and to work his way down his neck, pulling at the t-shirt to access his shoulders. John can’t see Sherlock’s face in the dark, but he pushes back at him, shoves him away, and isn’t surprised when Sherlock steps back easily, takes his face between his hands again, and continues kissing as if John has quietly acquiesced. John shoves again; Sherlock returns, and this time his hands slide under the elastic banding of his pants, pushes them down. Sherlock kisses his mouth, more certain now, growing in confidence. John clings to him, hating himself as his fingers curl into Sherlock’s shirt, pulling until the buttons give way, trying and failing to undo Sherlock’s trousers, uncomfortable with the new angle. 

(“Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.”) 

They break the kiss only long enough for John to rip off his t-shirt, for Sherlock to drop his trousers, and then they stumble onto the bed, mouths hungry for each other. John pulls on Sherlock’s hair, wraps his fingers into the curly, silky strands, caresses and tugs with his fingertips in turn. It’s a fight, with Sherlock struggling to hold John, and John struggling to hold Sherlock, and neither of them can quite get enough of the other. Sherlock locks his mouth onto John’s shoulder, and John throws his head back and bites the scream back in his throat. 

(“What happened last night…Something happened to me; something I’ve not really experienced before…”) 

It is fast and it is rough and it is silent, though both of them gasp and groan and strain toward each other. Sherlock pushes slick fingers into John, one by two by three, and John groans and holds tightly to his shoulders. The fingers go before he has a chance to relax around them, and then there is Sherlock, over him, covering him, staring at him with open eyes and open mouth, as he pushes his cock inside. John stares back up at him, filling his lungs to bursting, and _he_ is bursting, and he and his lungs are full and tight and John holds onto the feeling of _completion_ for a long moment as they both wait for their hearts to begin beating again. Sherlock moves and John closes his eyes, and then it is nothing but motion and they rush to the climax without another pause. 

(“Funny doesn’t suit you. I’d stick to ice.”) 

John falls asleep, with Sherlock beside him, but when he wakes, Sherlock is gone. When he sees Sherlock again in the church cemetery, it’s as though the night before never happened. 

* 

The first time they make love is the day Moriarty is acquitted. 

John races into the flat, heart pounding, certain he will see Sherlock either bloodied over the kitchen table, or else find the flat empty, with every trace of Sherlock gone. There might be a note. There might be something spray-painted on the ceiling in luminescent paint, Moriarty’s triumphant laughter left to echo while John tries to breathe. 

Instead, he finds Sherlock standing by the window, his violin cocked under his chin, the bow resting on the strings. 

John’s fear doesn’t dissipate immediately, but it lessens with Sherlock’s presence. John breathes deep and tries to calm himself – he’s home, Sherlock is safe, and Moriarty is…somewhere else. But they’re together, and they can figure out what to do next. 

“Sherlock,” says John, but Sherlock doesn’t respond. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t play. 

And John realizes he hasn’t heard Sherlock play a note, not since he’d run through the door downstairs. Sherlock stands still, at attention, lost in thought, and frighteningly unreachable. 

“Sherlock,” says John again, and he walks up to Sherlock, and carefully takes the bow from his hand. Sherlock doesn’t resist, so John takes the violin as well, and lays them gently on the armchair. When he turns back to Sherlock, he sees the emptiness in Sherlock’s eyes, and he pulls his friend away from the window, into the back of the flat where no one can see from the street, and holds Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kisses him. 

Sherlock is quiet under his kisses, statuesque and still, but then his hands come up and rest on John’s shoulders, and John feels him start to breathe again as he removes John’s jacket and drops it to the floor. His touch is quiet, careful, and hesitant in a way that surprises John and makes him careful in turn. John takes heart and continues, feathering kisses on Sherlock’s lips while Sherlock slowly unbuttons his shirt. The shirt is nearly off his shoulders when John pushes Sherlock’s jacket off, and then they’re moving, turning in sync, toward the bedroom, somehow managing to avoid the furniture, stepping over clothes as they drop to the floor. Sherlock’s knees hit the bed and he tumbles backwards. John follows, never lets go even for a moment, never stops kissing him, and his hands run down Sherlock’s chest and stomach before pulling down the boxers and laying Sherlock bare beneath him. 

The mood shifts. Sherlock reaches up for John, frantic and anxious, kissing him as though life depended on it - and maybe it does. One hand curls around John's neck, holding him there, and John gives into it, braces himself up on his elbows and holds steady above Sherlock, lets his fingers twine through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's arm wraps around John's back, and it's not so much kiss as hunger. Desperation, even, and John works his way from Sherlock's mouth down to his neck, kisses and nips at the skin with his teeth. He thinks he can taste Sherlock's fear and relief in one bite. 

Sherlock is hard - Christ, he must be aching - and John is nearly so when Sherlock grabs hold of his cock between the ring of his fingers. A couple of quick, twisting drags and John sucks in his breath against Sherlock's skin, hears Sherlock's gasp in response. John fumbles, reaches across the bed to the table, and opens the small drawer, expecting to find the lube exactly where it sits. As if he's been in Sherlock's room before, as if they've done this a thousand times. As if he's been observing, not merely seeing, and in any other circumstance, Sherlock's eyes would light up and he'd receive praise for paying attention. 

But Sherlock says nothing, probably doesn't even notice John's scramble, his hand is continuing its pull and twist and flick over the tip of John's cock, and John, barely able to think with the blood rushing down, falls to his side next to Sherlock and lubes up his fingers. He reaches down, brushes the back of his hand against Sherlock's cock, which makes Sherlock gasp and pause. It's enough - John nudges Sherlock's legs apart and slides his fingers between, seeking out the hole and slowly starts to work his fingers in. 

He expects it to be snug; it's not, really, but there's still a comfortable pressure when he makes his way in, and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as he gasps. Sherlock's hand on John's cock stills, and John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's mouth again, lets his tongue caress Sherlock's tongue, and it's not the rough, desperate kiss anymore, but something calmer and quieter and careful. _I've got you, you're here, hush now, it's all right._

Sherlock arches his back, and John's fingers slip out. John rolls on top of Sherlock, his fingers giving his own cock a quick slick-down, and then he guides himself to Sherlock, sets his cock in line, and stills himself for a moment before going further. Sherlock is breathing heavily, steadily beneath him, eyes closed, mouth half open. His cheeks and his lips are flushed, and his eyes are rimmed red. John kisses the side of Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock shudders, opens his eyes— 

(“We’re not a couple.” “Yes, you are.”) 

It's what John has been waiting for, and he pushes inside Sherlock, holding his cock until the tip is nestled inside. John wants this to be perfect; Sherlock _needs_ it to be perfect. They need to feel the slow entry, smooth and practiced. John holds his breath until Sherlock exhales, his eyes closing again, and then John shakes him, just enough, until Sherlock opens his eyes again, and once more, John pushes in, just enough to make Sherlock's eyes go wide. _Look at me._

(“He never replies.” “He always replies.”) 

Just one more - just one more - and _there_ \- Sherlock sucks in a breath, and John kisses him hard on the mouth. Sherlock stretches his arms above his head, grips the pillow between his fingers and moans into John's mouth while John's cock starts to slick furiously against his prostate, John moving in time with his frantic heartbeat. It's not enough, it's just right, it's too much, and John feels his heart burst in cold waves of blood surging through his body, never once relinquishing Sherlock’s mouth. It's too much, and he loses himself for a moment; it's just enough, and he starts to breathe again; it's not enough, and John lazily kisses the side of Sherlock’s mouth as he catches his breath, fingers still clutching John's shoulders. 

(“Does that make me special?” “…Maybe.”) 

They're still now, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air, eyes closed. John still holds his weight on his elbows, until he can't keep himself up anymore, and he slides to Sherlock's side, lets his arm rest over Sherlock's chest. His head rests on the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock turns to press his face into John's hair, smells the grapefruit of his shampoo, and clings, unwilling to let go. 

* 

Before this. Before any of this. 

The first time they sleep together is just that – sleeping, because neither of them are willing to say that they can’t bear the absence of the other, even with eyes closed. John stands by the window in his room, hair still damp from the shower that did nothing to clear away the scent of chlorine burned into his nostrils. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the pain and shock and dismay and _heartbreak_ in Sherlock’s face in the odd blue light of the swimming pool by night. 

The knock at the door doesn’t take him by surprise, nor does Sherlock standing on the other side, and neither says a word as Sherlock stands by John, looking out the window over his shoulder. John can smell the chorine still on Sherlock’s skin, mixed with the soap and shampoo; he can feel the heat rise from Sherlock’s body, and he wonders how long they will carry the scent with them. Wonders if Moriarty is out there, staring out a window, trying to find them in the pattern of the night. 

(“Are you feeling exposed?”) 

Sherlock turns away, and John feels the loss, listens with some surprise – and really, none at all - to the sound of Sherlock as he slides into John’s bed. John waits until Sherlock’s breathing evens out, and then pushes away from the window and joins him. 

(“You’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. And somebody loves you…”) 

He stares at the ceiling until Sherlock rolls closer to him, drapes his arm across John’s torso in a comfortable weight anchoring him down. Thus reminded, John falls asleep, and doesn’t dream of anything. 

(“D’you know the big problem with a disguise? However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”) 

They wake the next morning, a tangle of hands already under t-shirts and slid between skin and elastic banding. And they slide back to sleep, thinking it a dream, neither really understanding who wakes up first and waits for the other to move. But when Sherlock wakes, really wakes, John is still beneath his hand, and when John wakes, really wakes, Sherlock closes the door softly behind him. 

* 

The first time they talk, only one of them is listening. But only one of them is talking, so it evens out. 

There is blue sky, and green grass. There are trees and birds and stones in even rows. The wind is cool, the day is mild, and it’s the kind of day where John wants to sit in a garden and read a newspaper, or take a walk along the river and laugh. It’s the kind of day that invites joy and smiles, and it is completely incongruous that he stands where he does, facing what is before him, with one quiet plea. 

“You … you told me once … that you weren't a hero.” 

(“It really bothers you…what people say….why would it upset _you_?”) 

“No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there.” 

(“They always turn…and they’ll turn on you.”) 

“I was so alone ... and I owe you so much.” 

(“We need to be more careful.”) 

“But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me…” 

(“Everybody gets _one_.”) 

“Would you do that just for me?” 

There is no answer. John touches the headstone, stands to attention, turns in a brisk military about-face, and walks away, never looking back.


End file.
